


We Borrow the Earth

by pentipus



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roma and Travelers, Apologies, M/M, Stereotypes, Use of the word 'gypsy'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3679080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentipus/pseuds/pentipus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve had seen Bucky fracture a man’s eye-socket for spilling his drink in a bar when they were seventeen, he’d seen Bucky hold a kid’s head underwater until he passed out for cussing at him at the lake, seen him lay waste to men twice their age with his cracked fists, always observing Bucky’s cruelty with a pounding, heavy heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Borrow the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on Tumblr posted [this](http://41.media.tumblr.com/ddffc4c6f0ba8283182fcd889db5fc9a/tumblr_n45vhaqTzs1tyjgolo1_250.png) picture of Sebastian Stan with the tag "he looks like a gypsy king" which is where this has come from basically.

Bucky had killed seven men, so they said, the first before he was thirteen. He made his money selling stolen guns and rigging cock fights. He made cider in the autumn and took the kids down to the creek to fish. There was a lightness about him that belied his brutality, a false spark that was ignited by his wide smiles and soft eyes, his white teeth in the firelight.

Steve watched him that evening, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat even though the sun had long gone down. Bucky was fighting with one of the other men, both shirtless, their scuffed shoes in a pile back against Bucky’s trailer. The other men stood around them in circle, whooping and swapping bets, bottles of beer in the hot air.

Steve watched Bucky trip his competitor, twisting him and pushing him face first into the dry earth, palm over the man’s ear and fingers stretched out across the back of his head. Bucky grinned down at him, saying something, his body heaving. Steve looked away, down at the plate of half eaten food at his side, and breathed in slowly. When he looked back up the men were clapping each other on the back while Bucky stood in the centre, his gravity pulling them into orbit as he moved back towards the fire pit. Someone handed him a beer and he immediately pressed it to the side of his face, against his neck. Steve felt his skin buzz.

“You should try and talk to the guys, Steve,” Bucky had told him one night. “They’re gonna think you got a problem with them.”

Steve had shrugged. “So?”

“We all gotta live together, Steve, there’s no point separating yourself for no reason. It’s just gonna make life harder for you.”

“I’m only hurting myself, right?”

Bucky took a long breath, letting it out in a sigh. “Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

Steve had watched Bucky kill a man when they were kids. He knew it wasn’t the first one because Bucky had known exactly where to stick the knife so that the man would die without making a noise, how to awkwardly catch the falling body before it thudded to the ground.

“Get a move on, Rogers,” he had said in a whisper. “Hurry the fuck up.”

They had taken money and food from the man’s house, raided his closet and found two .45s and a loaded shotgun, which they packed into duffle bags and slung over their shoulders, running back through the house and out into the woods that pressed up against the man’s backyard like a breaking wave.

Bucky laughed as he swiped his hand across his opponent’s face, brushing away the brown earth from his cheek, his other hand loose around the beer bottle at his side.

“Hey, Rogers,” he called, making Steve’s head snap up. “You see this?”

Steve nodded and grinned, shaking his head. “You bit the dust, Morita.”

“Damn right,” Bucky grinned, showing the points of his incisors.

Steve had seen Bucky fracture a man’s eye-socket for spilling his drink in a bar when they were seventeen, he’d seen Bucky hold a kid’s head underwater until he passed out for cussing at him at the lake, seen him lay waste to men twice their age with his cracked fists. He had spent his days observing Bucky’s cruelty with a pounding, heavy heart.

Someone said something that made the group erupt into laughter, and Steve watched as a hand was pressed flat against Bucky’s chest for a moment, pushing him playfully backwards.

“Hey, fuck you guys,” Bucky shouted with a grin, pushing back.

Steve loved him, of course he did, they all did. That’s why he sat and watched him fight, why they all watched him fight. They wanted to be near him, to be in the shadow of this gypsy monolith with violence like blood under his fingernails, unshakable and sharp as a tack.

Bucky separated himself from the group and came to sit in the plastic chair at Steve’s side. “Enjoying the show?” he asked.

Steve rolled his eyes and smiled, “Yes, very impressive, Buck.”

“You wanna go a few rounds?”                                                    

“Maybe later,” Steve said flatly, levelling an incredulous look at Bucky.

Bucky grinned slow and wide. “You know where to find me, buddy.”


End file.
